His lips were swollen from our efforts, the beginnings of bruises painting them wine red.
His eyes were stained glass straight off the kiln. “Does this,” he panted, “does this mean you forgive me?”
🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️🤸♀️
— Sep 04, 2026 09:45PM
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